


The Cell Block Gavotte

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arrest, Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Murder, Mutual Pining, Prison, an IOU from a certain snake demon, mentions of violent crimes, outsider pov, wrong place wrong time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Crowley is forced to defend himself from three disgruntled demons in the heart of London, and that is really, really hard to explain in a human court of law.(Or: Crowley goes to prison, and decides to just roll with it)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley, Ineffable Husbands - Relationship
Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545919
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1404
Collections: Good Omens





	1. Guilty

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," said the judge. "Have you reached a verdict?"

"We have," the jury member replied.

"Is it a unanimous verdict?"

"It is," they replied. They took a breath, glancing down at the paper as if just to make sure. "We find the defendant guilty of all charges."

Crowley groaned, sinking down in his chair. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, reluctantly getting to his feet as the court security personnel came to escort him away. The room was stuffy, reeking with floor wax to his sensitive nose, and he'd rather have been in bed. He shared a mournful glance with Aziraphale in the viewing gallery; it was only a fleeting moment before he disappeared again.

This was ridiculous. One moment he was just taking a stroll through his usual stomping ground, and the next he was being convicted of triple homicide. It was all just a big misunderstanding - but what was he supposed to say? _No, officer, I didn't kill them. I know I just stabbed them all, multiple times, in broad daylight, in public, and they aren't moving anymore, but they've only been discorporated. It was just self-defence. Knowing my luck they'll be back before the century's out._

Come to think of it, that might not have been a bad idea. He could have pleaded insanity and weaselled himself a reduced sentence. Bugger. These things always occurred to you too late, didn't they?

He'd thought about vanishing, changing his name and waiting for the whole thing to blow over, but... he'd never convince Aziraphale. He liked his shop too much. Hell, Crowley liked his shop too much. He loved everything in his life just as it was, and he was too old these days to go running off and starting from scratch somewhere else. It was easier to just let things happen. He'd spoken to Aziraphale about it too, and he'd agreed. After all, what's a 55 year prison sentence to two immortals?

Aziraphale was in a foul mood. He left the courthouse with a dark cloud over his head (literally, and the very localised thunderstorm that would later strike over Soho befuddled meteorologists all over the city). Journalists loitered by the front entrance, clustering around him as they recognised his face.

"Mr Fell, BBC news. Can you tell us what prompted your partner to commit these murders?"

"Channel 4 news, Mr Fell - is it true that your partner is a long-term sufferer of mental health issues? Do you feel that Mr Crowley got a fair trial?"

"Mr Fell - "

"Leave me _alone_ ," he barked, shouldering through them. He forgot his strength, almost bowling one of them over. He heard camera shutters behind him. With a flash of spite, he snapped his fingers, smirking wickedly as he heard their cameras explode in their hands. "Report on that," he muttered, stepping into a cab which had miraculously appeared by the pavement. 

He let out a long sigh, slumping back into the seat as the cab pulled away. The driver already knew where to go; Aziraphale was quite finished with human interaction for the day (perhaps even the month). It just wasn't fair. Crowley looked like nothing short of a monster to the general public, when he'd had no choice but to strike first. The demons had come at him from all sides in the park, and he had to act fast or risk capture. The headlines had sensationalised the story ruthlessly, especially the tabloids: BLOODBATH IN BROAD DAYLIGHT was one, SLAUGHTER IN ST JAMES PARK was another. The broadsheets were less fond of alliteration, opting for the more respectful titles of 'Three Murdered In St James Park' and 'Possible Triple Homicide In Beloved Public Space'. 

He all but ran into his bookshop when the cab arrived, slamming the door at his back. He made sure all the blinds were down, the doors were locked, and the windows sealed. He turned off all the lights, and retreated into the back room. He had planned to turn on a lamp while he was there, but found that he was more comfortable in the dark. It seemed fitting, somehow. This way, no one would think he was at home, at least. Now Crowley had been found guilty, his face and name would be in the press by tomorrow. He took a deep breath, his posture uncharacteristically hunched over.

"Chin up, Aziraphale," he told himself sternly, forcing his posture back to its usual standard. He tugged his bow tie straight. "Fifty-five years is nothing. You'll visit him every day, and he'll be out in a hop, skip and a jump. Easy-peasy."

"Don't suppose you have a different colour, do you, boys?" Crowley asked when the jumpsuit was dumped into his arms. "Orange clashes with my hair."

"No. And lose the sunglasses," replied the guard. 

He sighed. "Well, you asked for it," he said, pulling them off. He relished the moment of shock on the guard's face before he quickly composed himself again. He huffed, and went behind the screen to get changed. Humans were so jaded these days. A thousand years ago they'd have run screaming at the sight of his eyes, and maybe even let him off the murder charge (or grabbed a pitchfork, either one). 

He was shown to his cell, which was... fine. Grey, featureless, silent. "Better than Hell," he said with a shrug.

The guard behind him arched a brow. "Sure," he said, sliding the door shut after him. "Make yourself at home. Dinner is at six."

"Right," he said, looking around the small space where he'd be spending the next half-century. He clicked his tongue, pulling a face. "Well then."

Hari was new here. Prison guard had never been at the top of his list of jobs to have when he was a boy, but here he was anyway, at the tender age of 19. The prison service was hard-pressed for applicants these days, and they weren't in the position to be picky. With hindsight, though, maybe A levels were more important than Hari had given them credit for. He'd been given some fairly lengthy briefings before his first day, and had mentally prepared himself for the time ahead. He'd be dealing with the very worst of society, after all. For as much as he liked to find the good in people, he doubted there'd be much to look for here. He was on dining hall duty first.

It was simple enough. Wander up and down, keep an eye out. There's usually no need to intervene unless things start getting ugly, so he was told. As he loitered by the fire exit, scanning across the room, his eyes stopped on one particular prisoner.

He was sat alone, slouched in his metal chair with his arms crossed. He looked sullen, unfriendly, his lip curled for no special reason other than to make himself look nastier. Hari shuddered to think of whatever wicked thoughts were going back and forth behind those eyes - hang on a minute, the eyes! How hadn't he noticed? Even from this distance, he could see the dark slit through the venomous yellow. He straightened up, moving forward through the tables with a mask of false bravery. 

He reached the table and stood over the man for a moment, expecting him to look up. He took no notice. "Ahem," he said, folding his arms behind his back, then thinking better of it and resting one on his cudgel. 

With a petulant sigh, Crowley's head lolled around to look at him. "What?" he said impatiently.

"I'm going to have to ask you to remove the contacts, sir," he said firmly, but politely. He figured that if he showed them respect then at very least, they'd have no reason to hate him. The last thing he wanted was a whole building full of violent criminals to dislike him. "They look cosmetic to me, and only prescription lenses are allowed."

He stated, unblinking. "Contacts?" he said.

"Your contact lenses," he repeated, gesturing to his own eyes. He didn't want to put his hand anywhere near this man; he had a horrible feeling he wouldn't get it back if he did.

"I'm not wearing any," he said, turning away again. 

"But... your eyes," he said hesitantly. Was he being messed with?

"Medical condition," he replied, taking a drink from his water. The tray in front of him was empty, but not because he'd eaten already; it looked like it had never seen any food at all. "Now shove off. I'm not bothering anyone, am I?"

He glanced up, doing a slight double take at the expression on the guard's face. His professional bravado had begun to crumble; a young and frightened human stared through the gaps. He was uncertain, dithering about whether to stay or go, and soon enough he'd draw attention to himself. Crowley could smell the fear on him. He sent sharp glances back and forth across the dining hall, knowing that this lot were more than capable of finding a weak link in the prison staff. They were a nasty bunch. He knew the sort.

He hissed in annoyance. "Look, kid... I'm sorry, all right," he said stiffly, softening his demeanour ever-so-slightly. "It's been a long day."

"Oh. I mean - yeah, thanks, that's fine," he said, taken aback. He cleared his throat slightly. He was about to keep talking, when Crowley cut him off.

"Name's Crowley," he said, running his fingertip thoughtlessly over the rim of his water cup. "I guess you're new. Take a hint from me - don't let this lot see you dithering like that. They'll tear your throat out as soon as look at you."

"And you won't?" he said impulsively, and immediately regretted it. Crowley only chuckled softly.

"Not my thing," he said. "Which is ironic, considering what I'm in for, but... c'est la vie, right?"

"Right. Thanks for the tip," he said uneasily, and quickly began walking away. He didn't dare turn his back on him until he was a few feet away. Judging by his last comment, Crowley's crime was fairly violent. Murder, probably. No matter how inert he seemed, Hari reminded himself, that prisoner was not a very nice man. He'd have to ask what he did when he got back to the staff room. 

The first visiting hours were exciting. Crowley was fidgeting like a toddler on Christmas morning in front of the glass, looking for a flicker of a white coat anywhere in the next room. Aziraphale was right on time. He beamed at the sight of the demon behind the glass, settling into the stool in front of him.

"Hello, dear," he said, instinctively pressing his fingertips up against the glass. 

"Good to see you, angel," he replied softly, mirroring the gesture. Without his glasses, the full depth of his loving gaze was on show. 

He looked over the demon's shoulder at the barren halls. "Good lord, Crowley, this is awful," he said plaintively. "How do you survive?"

He laughed. "It's only been two days. Besides, I look the part," he said, tapping the tattoo on his face. "The cell's quite roomy, too. The decor isn't that different from my old flat."

He grimaced. "That's not encouraging."

"The food is the real letdown. Something tells me I won't be eating until I get out," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. Aziraphale looked horrified. "Don't give me that look. You know I'm not too fussed about food."

"But it's terribly unfair," he said, pouting. "It's lovely talking to you, but with this bloody glass in the way - well, it's frustrating."

"How do you think I feel? I'm stuck with a bunch of mouth-breathing convicts in here. The conversation isn't exactly what I'm used to," he said. 

"Oh I imagine," he said, a vacant, sad stare overcoming his face. 

"Better get into practice with that imagination. You've got a long dry spell ahead without me in the house," he said with a smirk, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Aziraphale blushed, but didn't disagree. "Well, yes," he said, with an embarrassed smile. "It'll give you something to look forward to when you get out, won't it?"

He grinned toothily. "Hmm, now you're talking," he said. 

"And that's all I'll say - we aren't alone, dear," he said with a wry smile. "I will visit you as often as they'll allow me to, you know - and I'll send letters, and presents."

"Really? I should commit triple murder more often, you never shower me with gifts," he said, making a guard behind him wince. 

"Oh, behave," he said, clucking his tongue. "How will you keep yourself occupied?"

He hummed thoughtfully. "Not sure yet," he said. "I'm sure I'll figure something out."

Weeks passed. The media tossed the story around like a dog with a rabbit, plastering Crowley's face over the newspapers and TV screens. The crime had captured the public's imagination. Often, Aziraphale would pick up his phone and end up holding a conversation like this:

"Hello, is this Mr AZ Fell speaking?" they'd ask.

"It is. I'm afraid I'm quite definitely closed," he'd reply. It was normally true.

"I'm calling on behalf of BBC news. We were just wondering if you might be willing to give your insight into - "

Aziraphale always hung up without a word. He wasn't interested in drawing any more attention to himself than necessary, and the fewer images that circulated of him, the better. There were already quite a few on the news these days. He'd even invested in a TV set (very old) to keep track of it all; Crowley would have told him to stop torturing himself, he was sure, but he couldn't help it. Somehow, it felt good to watch the reports, and grind his teeth in self-righteous anger. It was an outlet. 

By midday, they were talking about it again. "Just a few short weeks ago, London was shaken by a vicious daylight murder in St James' Park. Despite the killer being successfully convicted for the deaths, there are still many unanswered questions about this shocking crime," said the anchor. Aziraphale's knuckles went white around the armrests of his chair. "The victims' identities are still unknown, and the motives of the killer - one Anthony J Crowley - remain unclear even after the trial. We have Dr Hills, a criminal psychologist, here to give her perspective."

"Thank you," she said, sat primly in the sofa beside the news anchor. A large image of Crowley appeared on the screens behind them; it was from the park. Crowley was half-hunched, snarling, over a mound on the floor, blood soaking his shirt and splattered across his face. The knife in his hand seemed to glow in the harsh daylight. It really didn't look good for him.

"So, Dr Hills, is it possible to speculate at all on these questions?" asked the anchor.

She took a thoughtful pause. "Well, I think it's important to appreciate that the full details of the case are ultimately unclear. It is obvious that Mr Crowley committed these murders, but he himself was not forthcoming when he was asked why," she said, adjusting her skirt. Aziraphale was tempted to throw the TV out the window entirely, but refrained. He wasn't prone to fits of rage. "His partner has also refused to comment after his police interview."

"And why is that, do you think?" they pressed.

"You'd only twist my words," Aziraphale mumbled, glaring at the screen with his jaw set tightly. 

"That's another ambiguous issue. It's possible that the shock is playing a part - I think we can all appreciate how hard it must be, to find out that your boyfriend just killed three people in cold blood," she said sympathetically. Aziraphale would have stomped on her toes if he'd been in the room as she said that. "As for Mr Crowley's actual motive, I believe that will be tied in with the identities of the victims. Police have still been unable to trace them in any way, and witnesses at the scene did report that Mr Crowley seemed to become agitated as soon as they approached him."

"So it wasn't just a psychotic break?"

"I didn't say that. Undeniably, it takes a certain level of mental instability for a man to kill three people, unprovoked, in a crowded public place, especially as violently as he did," she said confidently. "It was almost certainly unplanned, but the speed at which he actually despatched his victims does suggest that he fully intended to cause death, not just harm."

He turned off the TV. He'd had enough now. He was torn between anger and sympathy; they were only human. They couldn't understand. In his heart of hearts, he knew he could never really blame the humans for arresting Crowley. All the evidence pointed toward him, and justice demanded that he be punished. Already, Aziraphale had noticed the looks he was getting from his customers. Some came by only to catch a glimpse of a murderer's lover, he was sure. A little for devilment, and a little because he missed him profoundly, he began to set up framed photographs of Crowley around the shop.

People noticed. The smiling demon sat on every desk, and most people recognised him. His face had been on too many news broadcasts not to. More often than not, they'd notice the photographs, and flee back onto the street. Other times, they'd fix him with a judgemental stare. It was the most fun he could get out of working hours these days, without Crowley around to cause trouble. 

Hari found that he liked working in the prison, once he settled in. It took a few years, sure, but he was even starting to consider working his way up to the top. He'd idly daydream about running the whole prison some days on his way up and down the corridors, on patrol. It was quiet this afternoon, until a sharp, abrasive noise echoed down the hall. He jumped, spinning around with a cry. After another moment, he recognised it. Was that... was that a harmonica? 

He jogged down the corridor, glancing in the cells as he went. Eventually, he came to a halt outside a familiar cell. "Crowley?" he said.

The demon took the harmonica away from his lips in surprise. "Oh, hey Hari. What do you want?" he asked. Hari had learnt to respect Crowley over the last few years; if you didn't bother him, he didn't bother you. He was also pretty funny, not that Hari was ever allowed to admit it.

"Where the hell did you get that?" he said in exasperation, gesturing at the instrument. 

"A great magician never reveals his secrets," he replied cryptically, playing another short, cartoonish prison tune.

"Did you smuggle it in?" he asked, brow creased. Crowley shrugged. "You know, _normal_ prisoners smuggle in drugs and cigarettes."

"Would you prefer it if I did heroine?" he said lightly, tossing the harmonica in the air. 

"Hand it over, Crowley," he said, firm but friendly, holding his hand through the bars. 

He sighed. "Fine," he said, slapping the harmonica childishly into his palm. Immediately, he reached behind his back and conjured another one from thin air. He pressed it to his lips and began to play, jumping out of reach of the bars.

Hari spluttered in shock. "Oh come on," he said, throwing up his arms in frustration. He held out his hand again. "That one, too - and any others you might be hiding."

He rolled his eyes and handed it over. "Fine, fine. I don't have any more harmonicas," he said sullenly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. "Happy now, Captain Buzzkill?"

"Yep. See you later, Crowley," he said with amusement, pocketing the harmonicas and continuing his rounds. He whistled idly as he went, to the same tune Crowley had been playing. 

The demon crept toward the door, watching him go. He sneered. He waited until he was around six feet away, then snapped his fingers. A kazoo appeared in his hand. He took a deep breath, and held it up to his mouth...

Another few years passed. Crowley was now seven years into his sentence, and Hari once commented on how well he was ageing. He tried to brush it off. His most recent birth certificate would make him about 64 by now... he'd meant to refresh it ages ago, but he'd been so taken up with Aziraphale that he didn't think about it at the time. He just hoped no one checked his age at the end of his sentence. 

Hari also noticed that Crowley never seemed to eat, apart from the small treats he got sent in the post. Of all the convicts in the facility, he got the most gifts by far. Hari had searched them before (standard procedure, especially since Crowley was nothing short of a miracle worker when it came to smuggling; as far as anyone could tell, he could just pull things right from thin air), and had been constantly surprised by what he'd found. The gifts were fabulously expensive. He'd received luxury truffles, small boxes of high-end patisserie and large bottles of ridiculously-priced cologne. 

That wasn't all. He also received pressed flowers (everything from roses to forget-me-nots), and lengthy letters written in a loopy Victorian script, possibly even with a quill and inkwell. Hari had read one once, when Crowley had come under some suspicion (smuggling again), and found himself almost embarrassed by it. It was a love letter, effectively. Even if much of the content only recounted the goings-on since Crowley had been away, it was painfully obvious that whoever had sent them, they loved him very much. They addressed him as _my dear Crowley_ , _my darling_ , and _my love_ , and often went off on tangents about how desperate they were to have him come home. Hari almost cried. Crowley was already old, with decades left to go... he'd never go home. He'd miss out on an entire life out there, with someone who loved him with all their heart. The letters were simply signed 'A'.

He shook himself. He reminded himself firmly that Crowley had been convicted of triple homicide seven years ago, with no doubts. It had been an open and shut case. Sure, he seemed laid-back - amiable, even - and his partner didn't deserve to be punished too, but he couldn't start to doubt the prison system. It was sad. He felt genuinely sorry for Crowley, but that's all he could say.

Maybe it was his knowledge of the letter that drew his attention to the tattoo on Crowley's forearm. He spotted it when he was waiting for a medical checkup, slouched in the waiting room on the single plastic chair. He tilted his head, looking at the mark.

"Who's Angel?" he asked impulsively.

Crowley tensed up, clapping a hand over the word on his arm. "Why?" he said tensely.

He blinked. "You have her name on your arm. She must be very important to you," he said carefully. "Who is it? Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Wife?" he tried.

"No," he said. 

Hari sucked in a breath between his teeth. "Oh. An ex?"

"No," he said for the third time, beginning to get annoyed. To his relief, the doctor called him in, and he jogged into the office before Hari could pester him any more.

Hari wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. Crowley could be standoffish at times, sure, but he was rarely so evasive. A sudden jolt of fear gripped him. What if Crowley knew he'd read the letters? They had to be from Angel, whoever she was. There was every chance that he was lying about her not being a girlfriend, after all, and he wasn't totally wrong to hold it against him for prying into his private letters. He'd never attacked a prison guard before... but who's to say he wouldn't? His crime had been random and violent all those years ago; Crowley could well be a ticking time bomb, just waiting to go off. A chill ran over his skin, and he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep himself from rubbing his arms. 

A new convict arrived in the prison. Crowley had been around for almost thirty years now, seeming never to age. Hari had asked his boss if he was sure that Crowley was 87 years old; they double checked his records, and that was definitely right. He was baffled. He'd seen Crowley every day for the last thirty years, and even as he grew older and changed, Crowley never did. He never had an extra wrinkle, nor a white hair, nor a stoop in his spine. He almost wanted to ask, but he had no idea how to approach it - _by the way, Crowley, how come you still look about 40 years younger than you are?_

He didn't suppose it mattered. He looked incredible for his age, so what? Give it another 25 years and he'd be as withered as a pharaoh's mummy, if not dead, surely. Still... if he was still doing so well in his eighties, maybe he could just about make it to freedom, and he could see Angel again. Hari had never forgotten about her. He had a curious mind, the type that couldn't let something go. What did Angel look like? He tried to imagine what Crowley's type might be; someone like him, probably. In his head, he conjured the image of a tall, sharp-boned woman in a dark jacket, twirling a switchblade between her fingers. Yeah, that seemed right. 

Pacing the dining hall, he kept wondering about the oddness of Old Crowley. That's what they all called him now, from guards to inmates. Some people called him the Old Man for a joke. No one really addressed his strange agelessness, skirting around it with jokes and implications. Crowley didn't seem to mind the talk - as always, if you weren't bothering him, he didn't care what you did. When the new convict started to approach Crowley's table - which had always been his, and his alone - Hari straightened up. By some miracle, Crowley hadn't gotten into a single fight in all his years in prison, but that didn't mean he couldn't start. 

"So you're the Old Man, huh?" the youngster said loudly, slamming his hands down on the table. The one-man commotion immediately drew attention from the other tables, who jeered and nudged one another, waiting to see if Crowley would snap.

He looked up slowly from his water cup. "Yup," he replied sourly, frowning up at him. 

He sneered. "What's so special about you, that you get a table to yourself? Huh?" he said goadingly. He rattled the table just to make a point. Crowley simply lifted his cup from the surface until he was done, and calmly put it back down. Hari waited near the fire exit, waiting to see if things would escalate. It looked like Crowley had it all in hand so far...

"Nothing," the demon said, leaning on his fist. "I suggest you leave me alone."

"Why? What are you gonna do, mate? Shank me?" he said, kicking the table. Water spilled over the edges of Crowley's cup. He tutted, pouting.

"He's killed a man for less, Charlie!" someone from another table jeered. 

"Three men!" someone else added, sending a ripple of laughter through the hall. "You're the little fish here, mate."

"You ought to listen to them," Crowley said, wiping the table under his cup dry. "I don't like hurting kids, and you're not far off - but don't push your luck."

The young criminal crossed his arms and puffed out his chest. "You've got a problem with hurting little ones, eh? Pansy," he said, gloating loudly. "I've done my fair share to 'em - like I did to my little brother."

Crowley froze for a moment, perfectly still, like a snake before the strike. Slowly, he got to his feet, the scrape of his chair echoing off the stony silence in the dining hall. "You'd better not be saying what I think you are," he said in a low voice, his yellow eyes boring into his soul. He was a demon, and demons could see guilt written upon a soul as clearly as they could see day from night. Crowley did not like what he saw. 

"I am. The little bastard got what was coming to h - _urk!_ " he said, cut off as Crowley's long fingers closed around his shirt, dragging him over the table.

Hari jumped, caught off-guard by the sudden motion. He cursed as the other inmates leapt to their feet, clustering around the two of them, both to form a barrier against the guards and to get a better view. Hari could hear the fight. He tried to shoulder his way through the throng of prisoners, along with his colleagues, to the heart of it all. Crowley grunted as he was hailed with blows, but it sounded like he was giving as good as he got. Hari was seriously worried - the man was in his eighties! One good blow could finish him off, no matter how good he looked. He threw his shoulder into the wall of people harder, trying to push through.

"Move aside! Break it up!" he yelled desperately, but his voice was lost in the commotion. 

A shriek cut through the cheering crowd. It made Hari cold to the bone - it shock, pain, anger and the freezing terror that accompanied it, all wrapped into a single heart-wrenching sound. Finally, some inmates began to leap back, reeling with shock.

"Holy shit!" someone cried.

"Fucking hell - what the _fuck,_ Crowley?" another added, voice cracking with surprise.

"Ooh, that's gotta hurt," one of the calmer ones sneered.

A gap opened up in the crowd. The prison guards immediately forced their way into it, breaking apart the throng, and moving to stop the fight. They were too late anyway. It looked like Crowley had already won. 

Hari froze, staring at the man he'd grown so used to seeing. He had gone wild-eyed and feral, with a foam of blood dribbling from his mouth and coating his fingers. The younger man lay on his back on the ground, his whole body quivering with shock. Crowley straightened up, holding his hands in the air as the guards descended on him. Almost as an afterthought, he turned and spat something out, scattering the other convicts as they tried to avoid it. Hari made the mistake of poking it with his foot. He jumped back once he realised what it was, and with a quick glance at the other prisoner, he saw where it had come from. A large chunk of flesh was missing from the point where his neck and shoulder joined, spilling blood over the floor at an alarming rate, with one of his colleagues desperately trying to stem the flow. Wide-eyed, Hari turned to Crowley just as handcuffs were being clasped over his wrists.

"Child-murderer," Crowley growled, seeing the look he was getting. "He deserved that. Trust me."

Aziraphale took the phone call in the late afternoon, wondering who would be calling. He listened pensively to the man on the other end of the line. "Oh? Oh, that's - that's not good. Ah. I see..." he said, playing with the cord as he spoke. He sighed, his shoulders slumping down in defeat. "Yes, I understand. Could you at least... send him my love? No? Very well, then. Thank you. Goodbye."

He put the phone down with a sigh. Crowley's right to visitors had been revoked for a month. Apparently he'd gotten into some sort of fight, and was now in solitary confinement. He milled about his shop idly, wondering what he might do now. A month suddenly seemed like forever, even though he hadn't been able to so much as lay his hands on Crowley for thirty years. He usually got to see him at least a few times a week; he hadn't missed a single opportunity to visit in all that time, not one. He'd sent as many presents and letters as he could, too. At least the media circus around the whole thing had died down...

He decided to open the shop the next day. Maybe some verbal sparring would keep him occupied for once. He'd be too distracted to read while he was still plagued with thoughts of Crowley, all alone in a dismal little cell somewhere. He shuddered. He was so taken up in his thought that he didn't notice the man entering the shop, with a small piece of paper in his hand.

"Erm, excuse me, sir?" he said, approaching the counter.

Aziraphale snapped out of his stupor. "Hm?" he said, a little dazed. He looked the man up and down: he wore some sort of nondescript uniform, crumpled from a long day at work, with short-cropped black hair and light brown skin. "Can I help you with something, dear boy?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Is this, uh - is this Greek Street?" he asked uncertainly. 

"It is," he replied. His eyes flicked to the note in his hand. "Are you lost?"

"I think I might be," he said with an awkward laugh, unfolding the scrap of paper again. "Someone gave me this and - uh - I don't know if they've got it wrong, or if this address isn't right anymore... I'm looking for someone called Angel."

A bolt of shock ran through Aziraphale's heart. "Angel?" he echoed, forcing himself to relax. Plenty of humans had that name; not everything was a sign. "I don't believe I know anyone around here by that name, I'm afraid."

"Right. Sorry to bother you," he said, pushing the crumpled paper back into his pocket and turning to leave.

"Wait - who was it that gave you the address?" he called out impulsively. The man paused. "Perhaps I can still point you in the right direction."

He winced, coming back to the counter. "Well, it's a pretty long story... you don't happen to remember around 30 years ago, do you, when that guy committed three murders in St James' Park?"

He sat up straighter. "I do. Vividly," he replied. The man grimaced, privately wondering if he was speaking to one of the victims' friends or family.

"I work in a prison, and I got the address off the guy who did it," he said sheepishly. "Anthony Crowley, if you know him."

To his surprise, Aziraphale broke out in a wide, joyful grin. "I do!" he said delightedly. "And now you mention it, I believe I do know who you're looking for after all."

"You do?" Hari cried. He had been convinced that when Crowley slipped him the note (saying simply FIND ANGEL, followed by an address), he'd made a mistake; who would have thought that someone like him would hang around in a book shop? Him or his mystery girlfriend, for that matter. "You know Angel?"

"You're looking at him," Aziraphale said with a wry smile, holding out his hand to shake. Hari took it, dazed. "It's just a pet name, mind you. My real name is Aziraphale. Pleasure to meet you, ...?"

"Uh - Hari," he replied. He gawked at the old bookkeeper. This was the exact opposite of what he'd expected Crowley's precious angel to be: plump, friendly, and frankly a bit camp. Oh, yeah, and a man. "Are - are you and him...?"

"Courting? Yes," he replied, coming around the counter to guide him toward the back room. Hari followed, baffled by the archaic language. Who still said 'courting'? "Do come in for some tea, you look exhausted."

"Huh. I have some apologies to make," he said sheepishly, letting himself be nudged back onto a sofa. "I didn't know Crowley was gay..."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Looks can be deceiving, can't they?"

Soon, there was a tea tray laid out on the table before him. It was a quaint teapot and cups, printed with ditsy flowers and countryside songbirds. Aziraphale poured a cup for him, handing it over on a saucer. He took it, and looked nervously back and forth across the dusty mountainscapes of books built up around the shop, interspersed with the odd piece of furniture and, even rarer, floor space.

"Um... look, I know I'm the one who found you, but... I don't actually know why I'm here," Hari admitted. "Crowley just gave me the paper and didn't say a word. He couldn't, I mean - he's in solitary, and I'd get in trouble if anyone found out I'd taken anything from him."

Aziraphale hummed, settling into his armchair with his tea just beneath his nose. "If I know my Crowley," he said with a fond smile, "I'd say he got himself in trouble, lost his visitation privileges, and now he wants you to to make his excuses for him."

"He wants me to do what?" he said, his teacup almost slipping from his hand.

"Explain what happened, tell me why I shouldn't be angry," he said amusedly. He seemed totally at-ease with the idea. "So go on, dear. I hate to put you on the spot, but it seems it's up to you to save poor Crowley from an ear-bending next time I see him."

After a splutter and a few false starts, Hari started to explain what had happened. He began to squirm under Aziraphale's pale eyes, like an ant beneath a magnifying glass. It was no wonder Crowley liked him; the man could be unnerving even while wearing a dorky tartan bow-tie. That takes a special kind of crazy, in Hari's eyes. As he got on to why Crowley had started the fight in the first place, the angel's gaze finally softened in understanding.

"Ah. Yes, that's not surprising," he said, sipping his tea. "He's always had a soft spot for children. You needn't say any more, I already understand. Thank you, Hari, for coming all this way for him. I'm sure he'll be very grateful."

He swallowed hard. "Yeah, yeah," he said quietly, swiping his tongue nervously over his lips. "Aziraphale, I - I hope I'm not pushing my boundaries now, but... you seem to know Crowley pretty well. Do you know why he ended up in prison in the first place?"

His brow furrowed. "Because stabbing people to death is illegal."

He let out an exasperated laugh. "Okay, fine, but like - he seems like a good guy. Rough around the edges, yeah, and more than a bit loopy, but good. I think we'd all like to tear lumps out of child killers but - but what he did in St James', it doesn't make sense," he said, rubbing his temples in frustration. "He just doesn't seem that cold-blooded to me."

Aziraphale sighed forlornly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. The irony dripped from the whole story in rivers - the cold-blooded snake who couldn't hurt a fly, being painted as the cold-blooded killer who just couldn't help himself. "That is a very long story," he said, lost in the past, recalling six millennia in a fleeting moment. "But you're right, he is really quite nice... deep down. He'll never admit it, mind you."

"And you've kept loving him, even after all these years," Hari said in awe, struck by the depth of Aziraphale's adoration. He'd read the letters; now, he'd seen the feeling behind them in the flesh. 

"Oh, yes. I've waited for him for much longer than fifty-five measly years," he replied quietly, staring into his teacup with a glazed look. 

Hari's breath caught in his throat. He wet his lips again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He had to ask. After a comment like that, he had to ask... "How old are you both?" he asked carefully. A pair of apprehensive blue eyes snapped onto him. "I've never seen Crowley age in thirty years. He's supposed to be almost ninety, and he just won a fight with a twenty-year old."

Aziraphale bit his lip. He gave an awkward smile, fidgeting uncomfortably, and looking anywhere but directly at him. "Well - er - you see, the thing about that is - um," he said, before letting out a small whine and letting his shoulders slump. "Oh all right. Crowley and I, we don't - we don't really age, per se."

"Per se?" he said dryly.

"We experience time, of course, just like you, but - but we aren't moved by it," he said haltingly, finishing his tea and re-filling it with a mere thought. He let out a nervous chuckle. "You already knew all that, though, didn't you? Or you wouldn't have asked. Please tell me you knew..."

He coughed slightly, scratching the back of his neck. "I just - I guess I as expecting a rational explanation," he said. The full force of that admission hadn't hit him yet. 

Aziraphale winced. "It is rational - it's just that no one ever asks outright," he said. He placed his teacup back on the table, and got to his feet, gesturing to the door with a kind smile. "It's getting dark. You should be going now."

He sat bolt upright. "B - But!" he cried, putting his own cup down. "You can't just - just announce you're immortal and then kick me out!"

Aziraphale pouted sternly, planting his hands on his hips. "Now listen here, young man," he said, making Hari cringe back slightly, feeling suddenly like a six-year-old. "You must understand... if I tell you the truth, you will never be the same."

He gazed up at him in surprise, not expecting the softness in his voice. He honestly seemed to care. "Is that so bad?" he asked tentatively, searching his delicate features for any indication of the answer.

Aziraphale deliberated for a moment. He pursed his lips, rocked back and forth on his heels and directed more than one imploring glance at the ceiling before finally sitting back down. "Okay," he said in defeat. "But first, I have a very important message I'd like you to pass on to my Crowley - then, I'll tell you everything."

"Deal," he said, shuffling forward to sit on the edge of his seat. 

Hari clocked into work the next day in a stupor. His chat with Aziraphale hadn't ended there; he had spent hours in that shop, having whole worldview bend back over itself several times. Just when he thought he'd grasped the truth, the angel had thrown another curveball ( _"Goodness, how could I have forgotten? The apocalypse was scheduled for around thirty-odd years ago, you know."_ ) He hadn't gone home until after midnight. His dreams had been buzzing with the angel's words, spilling over with apocalyptic images and the blazing light of something just beyond. It was only when his alarm went off that he realised he'd have to go back to the prison, and walk into a small concrete room with a demon inside. 

A demon. A _real_ demon.

He was stunned. It explained a hell of a lot (and the grand love story between him and Aziraphale had taken a good hour and a half to tell... it was a gripping tale, he had to admit), but it didn't make him feel much better. It wasn't the whole demon thing that bothered him, really, it was the fact that the human inmates were just so much worse. Who would have guessed that humans were capable of much more creative evil than a beast of Hell itself?

He volunteered to bring Crowley's meal into solitary that morning. He slid out all the deadbolts, unlatched the many locks, and stepped inside with the tray. The demon was inside, lounging on a chair. He hadn't slept. His narrow pupils followed him in silence across the room, expecting something.

Hari set the tray on the table. He turned his head slightly toward Crowley. "He forgives you," he said, his voice gruff and breathy from a restless night's sleep.

Finally, a smile broke through his impassive stare. "Perfect. You're a lifesaver," he said. "Thanks, Hari. I owe you one."

He nodded dumbly, and decided not to think too hard about what that meant, coming from a demon. He never told Crowley that he knew, not for certain. He was almost certain that he didn't have to - after all, he soon got his visitation rights back, and Aziraphale was sure to have mentioned him. He was more right than he thought.

The very first visit Crowley had after the fight, after their gooey reunion from either side of the glass, he and Aziraphale had begun to discuss Hari.

"And I nearly forgot, dear me... thank you for sending young Hari to explain it all to me," Aziraphale said, his hand pressed against the glass like usual. "I'd have been quite miffed if I had to wait this long for an explanation."

Crowley chuckled. "He's almost fifty. They don't like being called young at that age," he said, tracing idle shapes across the barrier between them, following the lines of Aziraphale's hand. "But he's a good kid. He'll go far, I'm sure."

"I do hope you're good to him, dear," he said, in a kind of pouty voice that brooked no argument. "He took the news about what we are terribly well, you know."

"Ah. You told him, then. I knew he was looking at me a bit funny," he said, unconcerned. "Don't worry, angel. I've promised him a favour to pay him back."

He arched a brow. "Did you explain what that entails...?"

"Nope," he said with a cheeky smile. He'd already put a tally on Hari's soul to mark the debt; once he'd repaid it, he'd take it off. Until then, he wouldn't forget. Demons took their deals very seriously, after all.


	2. IOU

Hari retired when Crowley was 46 years into his sentence. He'd worked at the same job since he was 19; it had been stable, steady work with decent pay, but he was done with it now. He was 65, for God's sake. He couldn't cope with the risk any more, nor the demands of the work, and one night after a long hard look in the mirror, he knew he was ready to pack it in. 

Strangely, he told Crowley before he told his boss. "What, really?" the demon had replied, eyebrows shooting up. "I was hoping you'd stick around to see me go, thought you might give me a high five on my way out the door."

He laughed, leaning on the wall to rest his joints as he spoke through the bars of his cell. "We don't all live as long as you, Old Man. I've had enough of all this," he said. "I have grandchildren now, and God knows my poor daughter could use some free babysitting."

"Shame. I'd have been happy to watch them for her," he said, leaning back against a wall and tossing an empty bottle of aftershave in the air to occupy his hands. 

"I don't think she'd want a convicted murderer for a nanny, Crowley," he reminded him wryly. "But thanks. I'm handing in my notice today, so I don't suppose we'll see each other again after I leave."

The demon smirked. "Don't be so sure," he said, shooting him a wink. "Only nine years left to go, kid. Maybe I'll pay you a visit."

"That," he said dryly, jabbing a finger in his direction, "is the most ominous thing you've ever said."

There was a beat of silence. They grinned at one another, sharing a chuckle as Crowley stood up and shook Hari's hand through the bars. "It's been fun, Hari," he said. "Take care of yourself - and don't think I've forgotten about that favour I owe you."

"Oh yeah. How exactly are you planning to repay that?" he said, tilting his head.

"Easy. When you need me, I'll be there," he said, letting his hand go and returning to his bed.

"All right, Nanny McPhee," he replied, rolling his eyes and continuing his shambling patrol down the hall. "I'll see you around."

"Yup," he said, watching the old guard shuffle down the corridor, nostalgically remembering the days when Hari had all his hair and didn't need a hip replacement...

"Today's the day, today's the day!" Aziraphale cried, dashing ecstatically back and forth across the shop, making sure everything was in order. There was wine on the table, a detestable bebop record on his gramophone, and rose petals (mixed in with a few white feathers) on the bed. He wanted everything to be perfect.

Standing still when he reached the prison was not an option. He moved restlessly back and forth in the empty waiting room, slowly driving the man at the front desk insane, and turning to stare at the door at the slightest noise. He'd waited so long, so very long for this moment...

The latch turned. Again, he spun around, poised on the balls of his feet with a wavering desperation in his eyes. The door swung open, and a familiar figure stepped into the room. He was just as tall as ever, maybe slightly thinner, with the same cheeky smile on his face that Aziraphale had loved for centuries. At long last, he'd shed the prison uniform, clothing himself in the same black-on-black-on-black outfit that was so very, unmistakably him.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried, dragging him into his arms.

He laughed in relief, returning the hug, drinking in the familiar smells and sensations of Aziraphale that had so long been kept from him, put tantalisingly behind a sheet of glass. Look, but don't touch - just like those torturous six thousand years. Finally, he had him back. He hadn't changed a thing, not even slightly. He still wore his outmoded nineteenth-century outfit, with the same stupid unfashionable bow tie, and even the very same cologne his barber had suggested decades ago. It was like barely a day had passed. All the time spent waiting was washed away in an instant as they met, and the world was right again.

"Ang - ngk!" he said, cut off when Aziraphale's lips smashed into his. His serpentine eyes went wide for a split second, shocked that he'd done it where anyone could see, before snapping shut and returning it passionately. 

"I've missed you. I've missed you more than I can say," Aziraphale whispered, pulling away and pressing his head against his chest, feeling the reptilian coolness of his body against his. 

"Likewise," he said, holding him for a moment. Then, he cleared his throat, finally catching the jaded irritation on the face of the man at the front desk. "Uh, angel? I think it's time we went home. I'm sick of this place as it is."

"Oh! Oh yes, I've got all sorts of treats waiting for you back at the shop," he said, struck with a new wave of enthusiasm as he took his hand and began pulling him out the door. 

"You have, have you?" he said, taking in a sharp gasp as fresh air hit his face in the car park. Freedom suddenly unfurled at his feet, stretching out in every direction and striking him suddenly with a jolt of pure elation. He grasped Aziraphale's arm, halting him. 

"Crowley...?" he said, suddenly uncertain. He looked back and forth from the sheer awe on the demon's face, and the underwhelming sight of the half-empty car park. 

"Angel, I've been in the same building for fifty five years. This is - this is like... like Eden," he said breathlessly. He turned his eyes upward, finally seeing the sky with the city horizon at its rim, rather than the cold prison yard walls. 

Aziraphale frowned. "Good Lord, your standards have fallen," he said snobbishly, taking his arm and pulling him forward again. "Don't worry. We shall have that fixed in a jiffy."

"Uh - how?" he said, letting himself be dragged along, never wanting to take his hands off his angel again.

"I'm going to spoil you _rotten,_ that's how," he replied proudly, patting his arm. Crowley grinned.

The Thames flowed quickly, the current breaking up the ice on the surface and sending the crystalline sheets rapidly downstream on the writhing serpentine mass of dark water. Frost sparkled like glitter on the pavements. Hari's walking stick clacked along the surface, with his granddaughter's hand firmly in his own. She skipped along, slowing her pace to match her grandfather's. Winter wasn't such a good time of year for him anymore. His joints ached, and he lived in fear of slipping on the black ice. Still, he'd spent his whole working life alongside the most vile human beings the law could find, so it didn't stop him. 

Crowley's release from prison had made page six news last year. No one remembered the St James' Park triple murder these days; worse had happened since. It seemed that no journalist had bothered to go and talk to him, either, because the article made no mention of his immutable middle-agedness. He never did pay him that visit. Hari considered visiting the bookshop several times, but never worked up the nerve to disturb the supernatural couple inside. They'd probably forgotten him in the last decade, anyway. It didn't matter. Hari was happy with his life just as it was, with a large family all around him and Christmas just on the horizon. 

"Manasa? Can we sit down for a bit, sweetie?" he said croakily. "Grandpa's legs are getting tired."

The young girl stared up at him for a moment, her wide eyes processing the request. "Okay," she said happily. 

Manasa was a well-behaved girl, usually, but like many children her age, she had boundless energy. Much like him when he was younger, she wanted answers to everything, and couldn't keep her hands to herself when she saw something interesting. Curiosity was her biggest flaw, and her most charming quality. He wasn't surprised when she eventually hopped off the bench where he had sat, and began walking in circles around it. 

"Stay where I can see you, sweetheart," he reminded her, resting his walking stick across his knees. He'd accidentally tripped people up before when he left it on the floor. 

"I will," she replied dutifully, holding out her arms and pretending to walk on a tightrope. 

He smiled. Her sixth birthday was coming up in the new year, and he'd been planning to buy her a book on the stars. She'd loved stargazing since she was first able to lie back in the grass with her mother and father, staring up at those beautiful white speckles in the sky. Hari liked to tell her that angels had gone up into space and built the universe, piece by piece, with their own bare hands. She was always asking more about the angels - _what do they look like, grandpa? How do you know?_ Manasa's mother was always amused to overhear her father telling the story of how he'd met a friendly angel in a bow-tie (and his boyfriend, the yellow-eyed man), bemused by how he'd cooked up that particular story. He'd never been one for tall tales. 

He was broken from his thoughts by a shriek. He jumped, heart suddenly hammering as he span around. "Manasa!" he yelled, barely catching sight of her small hand vanishing over the edge of concrete precipice that marked bank of the Thames. 

His walking stick clattered to the ground as he leapt up, cursing his aged body as he ran toward the spot where she'd fallen. She was screaming - then silent - and then crying out again for help. His heart tore itself in half, adrenaline flooding him, and he shouted hoarsely for his granddaughter. He reached desperately toward the bars along the banks, too far apart to have kept her safe, and his foot slipped on the dark ice on the pavement. The path slammed into his chin, jarring his teeth, breaking his fragile, wrinkled skin. He choked on a sob, already fighting to stand again.

People began to crowd him. They were asking if he was okay, trying to help him, and none of them could understand his desperation to reach the river. Some people were trying to hold him back, fearful he wanted to drown himself.

"No - no, you don't understand!" he screamed hysterically. "Help, please. My granddaughter - please, someone, _anyone!"_

Immediately, he heard footsteps rush by his head. His clouded eyes barely had time to register the dark figure who vaulted over the safety railing, plunging into the river below. He let out another harsh shout, half in relief and yet still panicked, thanking whoever was out there that someone had heard his cries.

Crowley would have heard him, even if he hadn't been in London on that day. Being summoned unexpectedly from the shop to the banks of the Thames was a shock - especially in the depth of winter without a proper jacket - but he'd quickly realised what was happening. The old man on the pavement was hardly recognisable, but he'd know Hari's voice anywhere. He took one look at his shaking finger, pointing in desperation at the river, and he'd taken a flying leap. 

A long hiss escaped his lungs as the cold water swallowed him whole, submerging him for one freezing instant before his head broke to the surface again. He was being carried downstream at a frightening rate, his eyes barely locking on to his target ahead of him. The girl was growing weaker by the moment, powerless and panicking in the water, which pulled her under whenever it could get a firm grip. Crowley snarled, swimming with the current, striking out toward her. 

"You're not taking her," he spat, his mouth numb from the icy river that battered his face. "You let her go. That little girl _isn't yours."_

The water rippled slightly in fear. It could feel the spite radiating from the demon; water had always been an arrogant element, very pleased with itself and its divine status. Crowley had never liked it. "Are you listening?" he continued angrily, swimming harder against the indifferent current. "Don't make me fetch my angel."

That did it. The river abruptly slowed, the currents shifting beneath the dark waves, carrying Manasa rapidly back upstream. Her small body collided with Crowley's chest unnecessarily hard, making him glare at the water as he cradled her above the surface.

"Oi, less of the attitude. You know what you did," he said sternly, pushing through the water toward a nearby ladder. 

He pulled himself up from the river, struggling to climb with the deadweight of Manasa on one arm and his clothes soaked through. He grunted as he hauled them both onto the pavement, pushing the unconscious child ahead to safety before collapsing onto his knees on the cold ground. He panted desperately, taking long breaths as people ran down the street, a few hanging back to help the old man down to his granddaughter. 

“Is she awake? Is she breathing?” someone called as they reached him.

He looked at Manasa. Her chest wasn’t moving. He held his hand behind his back and snapped his fingers. “Yeah, she’s fine,” he replied calmly, sagging forward in his exhaustion. Manasa’s chest began to rise and fall again. 

“She’s okay!” the stranger shouted down the street toward Hari, who was struggling to hurry down toward her. 

Hari almost collapsed in relief, thankful for the helpful strangers who took his weight. His eyes weren’t what they used to be at his age, and he didn’t recognise the thin man beside Manasa until he was on the floor beside her, urging her awake. Her eyelids flickered, and she sat up with a cry of surprise. She shivered, pushing herself as close as she could manage to her grandfather, crying and clinging to his shirt. He cradled her close, stroking her hair.

“Thank you, sir, I - ” he began, finally looking at the man opposite him. His words caught in his throat, dying on his lips as he saw a pair of slitted yellow eyes watching him amusedly. Crowley’s red hair was darkened by water, plastered against his head, and his unfamiliar dark clothes dripped water onto the pavement. “Crowley!”

“Told you I wouldn’t forget about you,” he said with a self-satisfied grin. He snapped his fingers, and the strangers still hanging around suddenly stood straighter and walked away in a daze. “I think this makes us even.”

“You - you saved her,” he said, looking down at the trembling little girl in his arms. “You’re a hero.”

“How the tables have turned,” he said, getting to his feet. By the time he’d fully straightened out his legs, he was bone dry, his hair perfectly re-styled. He helped Hari up, and dried Manasa off too. “She’ll be completely fine. She won’t even get a cold, demon’s honour.”

“God, thank you, so much. Manasa, say thank you to Mr Crowley,” he said, brushing some hair out of her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said tiredly, her eyelids dropping again, giving him a little wave.

Crowley smiled, returning the wave. “You’re welcome, tyke,” he replied warmly. He made eye contact with Hari. “What are you going to tell her mother?”

“The truth,” he said without hesitation, rubbing Manasa’s back comfortingly. “I’ll just add in that I got her dry and checked by a doctor before I came home.”

“You’ll even tell her about me?” he said, arching a brow, shoving his hands in his pockets. “The big bad demon?”

“She knows your name. I used to talk about you at home when she was young, though she never knew you weren’t human,” he said. Crowley smirked. “She’ll want to meet you. You saved her baby.”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “It’s your funeral, mate,” he said. “I’m still a convicted murderer. She isn’t going to like that.”

“Tough. You’re with me,” he said stubbornly. “Here, take Manasa. She’s sleepy. I’m not strong enough to carry her all the way to the bus stop.”

Crowley took the child in surprise, who only squirmed for a moment before settling against his chest with a sleepy mumble. Hari was already walking past him, leaning heavily on his walking stick, calling over his shoulder for him to hurry up. With a sigh, Crowley readjusted his grip on the child and took out his phone. He held it up to his ear, speeding up to walk beside Hari toward the stop. 

“Angel? It’s me,” he said, hardly catching the side-glance he got from Hari. “I’m going to be late home. Funny story...”


End file.
